


We Gathered Masses

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: Distant Thunder [5]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Cybertron
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Cybertron, the Autobots gather to mourn the death of one of their own. Elsewhere on the mechanical world, the surviving Mini-cons meet to determine the fate of three of their number. Unbeknownst to those assembled, Sparkplug has another topic to discuss... one that will forever alter the destiny of the diminutive Transformer race.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Do you think they’ll come?”

“No. I _know_ they’ll come.”

“Hmmph. Wish I had your confidence.”

Over-Run settled further back into his chair. “Sparkplug, many members of our race have long wished you possessed my confidence, my poise, my abilities. Though lacking in them, you have always possessed the next best thing.”

Sparkplug sighed. “Which is?”

“Well now… having me as your chief advisor.”

The golden Mini-con shook his head and bowed out of the conversation. He should have known better than to even start it. Over-Run was old, incredibly wise and a font of knowledge that bordered, sometimes, on the omniscient. That didn’t, however, free him of a pretty nasty case of ego. He might have been the closest thing the Mini-con race had to a shaman – and, unfortunately, he knew it.

Still, that might not matter for very much longer. The universe around them had changed and, now, it fell to the Mini-cons to do the same. For the first time in millions upon millions of years, Sparkplug had called an _enclave_ \- a mass meeting of his race. Under _enclave_ , all enmities were ignored and factionalism disregarded. It was a peaceful meeting, called only in the most dire of circumstances, to which all Mini-cons were welcome.

Not that it always worked that way.

The last time _enclave_ had been declared, it was so Sparkplug could order an evacuation of Cybertron. It was a decision that continued to haunt the small golden robot. His first command, his first order as leader of their race, and the vast majority of Mini-cons had ignored him. All but 17 chose to side with either the Autobots or the Decepticons. Worse, still, his actions had caused the Transformer Civil War to spread to another world… Earth, the home of their human allies. Upon Sparkplug’s own shoulders rested responsibility for the sins committed on that beautiful, strange organic world.

Most of those 17 sat around the large, polished conference table, waiting. High Wire, Grindor and Sureshock were, as usual, talking happily amongst themselves. Ransack was trying to convince Dune Runner and Iceberg to take on the highest of the Manganese Mountains, with little success. Dirt Boss was talking quietly with Payload, ignoring Astroscope’s droning lecture – the same one that had Mirage and Downshift on the verge of passing out from boredom. Skyblast, meanwhile, tried to flag the low spirits of Incinerator, who was still tender from his time on Speedia.

“Movement outside,” Over-Run, the last of the escapees, said as he glanced at a monitor. “We’ll know how many responded to your invitation soon enough.”

This time, _enclave_ was for a much different reason. Firstly, the Mini-cons had to decide what to do with their future. No longer slaves of Unicron, no longer needing the protection of one faction or another, they had a genuine chance to make a home for themselves on the restored Cybertron – to have real lives, for the first time! Secondly… and even more importantly, in Sparkplug’s processor… they had to decide the fates of three of their own – the last three members of the group that escaped Cybertron.

Heavy steel doors cracked and slid apart, permitting entrance to those outside. Sparkplug’s optics widened with surprise. _Everyone_ had come.

Firebot, Makeshift and Prowl entered first, flashing broad grins and burnished Autobot insignias. Jolt, Six-speed, Reverb and Long Arm followed. They were the group most dedicated to the Autobot cause, and were still high on the victory at Iacon. With them was Zapmaster, the cocky little punk responsible for Thundercracker’s conversion to the side of the angels, and Windshear – who was shackled, an obvious prisoner.

Of more concern was the next group. Buzzsaw and Drill Bit came in first, giving support to a dishevelled-looking Clench. Now that Megatron was gone, it seemed the Decepticons did not take too kindly to the overbearing, self-important, self-proclaimed “powerhouse of the Powerhouse”. Broadside, Fetch and Scattor scurried in and instantly took to the shadowy corners, as was their nature. Oceanglide strolled in as if he owned the place – his snivelling cronies, Stormcloud and Waterlog, at his salty heels. Ramjet, too, paraded around like lord and master, banking on his association with Tidal Wave despite their recent incarceration. Behind them all strode Dualor, the heavily-armoured heavy thinker… the one who worried Sparkplug the most.

Most of those mechs had long-term partnerships with one soldier or another… how would they respond to the idea of peace?

Skid-Z led the next contingent, which made Sparkplug sit up and take notice. He and his group – Side Burn, Gunbarrel, Terradive and Thunderwing – came in separate from the rest of the ‘con sympathisers. Perhaps the rumours of a schism within the enemy ranks… of a split between Starscream and Predacon… were true. Sparkplug was dying to know but resolved to say nothing. For one, _enclave_ was not the place for factional talk. And, for the other, the wrong question could endanger the life of Side Burn who was – and had always been – the Autobots’ secret weapon within the Decepticon camp. The nervous, often frightened Mini-con was the reason Iacon had remained safe for so many, many vorns. His information feed, direct to Omega Supreme, was second-to-none.

The doors shut with a heavy, sombre clang. Sparkplug felt something gurgle in his sump. He realised, sadly, that the 40 of them… plus the three whose fates they would decide… were the last of their kind. The sole survivors of the Transformer Civil War. The last remaining “children” of the Chaos Bringer, Unicron.

 _Well,_ he thought glumly, _at least there won’t be too many votes to count if we go to secret ballot, then._

Grim, gallows humour… but necessary, if he was going to make it through this meeting without breaking down. He gave everyone a moment to compose themselves – for dark, threatening stares to flash across the room – then tapped his fist on the table. Within a minute, the group fell silent.

“Thanks… for coming. All of you,” he said, falteringly. “We have a lot to discuss, so I’ll just get right into it. With the war over… at least, on the surface of Cybertron itself… we have some decisions to make, as a race, about our next step. But I want to get to that in a breem or two. First…”

He signalled to Over-Run. The older mech left the room briefly, returning with a long metal trolley on wheels. Atop it lay the Star Sabre, the combined super-weapon form of the Mini-cons Runway, Sonar and Jetstorm. A few hisses rose from the ‘con-allied side of the room – obviously, Starscream had yet to realise the weapon had been stolen.

“Our friends, here, have been in this form for more than half a vorn,” Sparkplug said quietly. “While I arranged for their return, I didn’t feel it was right for me to decide their destiny by myself. Those of you who have combined or weapon forms know the risks involved… you lose sentience for a time, perhaps even your identity. You also become heavily influenced by the feelings and opinions of the Transformer wielding you.

“So my question is this: given their length of time in this form, and given that they were enslaved to Megatron himself… do we de-construct the Sabre into the Air Assault Team and hope for the best, or do we simply leave them like this?”

\-----

When a warrior fell on the plains of Animatros, it was a glorious occasion. There was the thrill, the sparks, the rending flesh and the spraying blood, the sheer exalted glory of _huntnomore._ Whether it be friend or foe, the loss of a life was something to be celebrated, to be remembered, to be sung of or howled over around the fire. Such was the stuff of memories, of legends, of greatness.

It seemed, to Snarl, that when an Autobot fell, it was a pitiful, bleating, blubbering occasion not even worthy of a morsel of prey.

He would have liked to regard to scene before him with cool dispassion, but could not. It was so sentimental, so self-serving, so _nauseatingly weak_ that it offended his very Spark. Row upon row of alleged “warriors” sat sullenly, ready to salute the passing of a fellow weakling. Tow-Line, the cantankerous journalist, had departed this plane by having his very essence ripped from him. That, in Snarl’s opinion, was worthy of acclaim and celebration – he had thrown off the innate flaws of the Autobot way of thinking and embraced pure, vengeful fury, living a few wondrous moments in a blood-red rage. But Tow-Line’s peers seemed only to want to make excuses for his “odd behaviour”, and mourn the “tragic circumstances” of his death.

“Pathetic,” the wolf hissed. “When our meat is devoured and our steel rusted, all that remains are the tales of our hunt. They do him a disservice.”

Loud footsteps thundered behind him, and a familiar, brutal voice assailed his sensitive audio sensors. “You taking seat? It about to start,” Grimlock said. “And it not the done thing, standing at back of funeral.”

Snarl wrinkled his lupine nose. “Where I come from, none of this is the done thing,” he said contemptuously. “The weak fall on the same plains as the brave, the Brimstones pick their superstructures clean, and the hunt continues.”

“Yeah, your home really pleasant place,” Grimlock quipped. “Me often wonder why me ever wanted to leave. Oh yeah – high percentage of psycho ‘cons with god complexes. Forgot for moment.”

“Even Flame Convoy, at his worst, treated the death of a hunter with truth,” Snarl replied. “He wouldn’t seek to apologise for the blood thirst of the dead, be they friend or foe.”

Grimlock shook his head. “Hello, selective data recall,” he growled. “This mech who stuck claws into your processor, who ate own troops whole just to bump up power levels. Me no think he sort to mark any ‘bot passing with more than satisfied burp.”

“You are entitled, of course, to your opinions,” Snarl sneered, “erroneous though they may be.”

The Dinobot shrugged and walked on, taking a seat in the front row with the rest of the inner circle – Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Red Alert and Silverstreak. Snarl noted Vector Prime, Downshift and the human called Kicker were also there… the biggest apologists, he decided, got the best seats.

Funerals, as a concept, mystified him. In one building did gather everyone you knew and who knew you, they spoke well of you, then your remains were blasted into space with “full military honours”. Hardly the most effective use of resources. It was wasteful, much as… it galled him to admit… Flame Convoy had become in the dark days. Better to recycle the fallen, consume their chassis, and strengthen the rest of the army.

Not that any one would have listened, had he voiced his opinion. Tow-Line’s husk, devoid of Spark, had been secured to a small space barge. The device was slanted at a 45 degree angle, facing up toward the night sky. Its trajectory would take it up, out over Iacon and into space proper, to eventually collide with a nearby star and meet its molten end. Completely ostentatious, in other words.

A rancid stench assailed his delicate nostrils. Snarl’s expression soured, the steel plates of his face warping with distaste. Never before had he suffered such an odour – it was worse than the reek of cowardly death, worse than the tang of wasted flesh. So many putrid scents rolled over one another and up into his systems… rotten, filthy, sickening smells… that he could scarcely bear to try and identify even one.

Snarl turned on his clawed feet, seeking the source of his disgust. He expected to find some sort of half-dead vermin, a tiny, scurrying creature that ate and lived in waste, a being from the sewer system that had surrounded the Plasma Energy Chamber. Instead, his pained optics settled on another Transformer.

It was an Autobot, standing perhaps half Snarl’s own height. White and grey arms sprung from a square, blocky torso, which itself rested on two stubby, white-and-blue legs. At least, that was Snarl’s best guess… every inch of the mech seemed coated with grime, dirt, oil and other undesirable residue, caked so thick its original colouring could have been totally different. In one hand it clenched a long, lethal-looking crimson and grey rifle. Its head was small, blue and grey and, in Snarl’s opinion, somewhat rodent-like. When it spoke, more of that disgusting stink flowed from its vocal cavity.

“Hey there, Chopperface,” it whined, a vein of sarcasm running through the words. “Did I miss anythin’? Thought it’d be bad form to be late t’ my predecessor’s funeral, know what I’m sayin’?”

Snarl wafted the stench away with his wolf’s-head hand. “Predecessor?” he managed to choke out.

The mech grinned wryly. “Oh, sorry ‘bout that – shoulda started with introductions.” He extended a grimy hand. “Name’s Armourhide… I’m the newest member o’ the core Autobot team. Howyadoin?”

\-----

“You called us here, under _enclave_ , made us bob and weave through Autobot security screens and expect us to sit peacefully with _that_ mob of traitors,” Ramjet spat, stabbing a finger at those loyal to Predacon, “just for _this heap of slag_?”

Sparkplug sighed and ran his hands over his face plate.

“C’mon, Goldenrod, it’s not that frelling hard!” the small purple jet continued. “Break the boys free, pick a plot of land somewhere in Kalis... you peace-loving weaklings can live the hermit’s life, and leave us warriors to get back to slagging some turkeys!”

He grinned maliciously. “Just make sure the spot you pick is a nice, easy target for when the ‘cons take this ‘burg over again, okay? Do that, and maybe we’ll go easy on you.”

Gunbarrel rose, slamming his fists on the table. “You’re living in a dream world, you little suck-up,” he growled. “Your boss couldn’t lead nanites to an Energon picnic. There’s only one True Path to retaking Cybertron and, proto, you ain’t walking it.”

Prowl called out next. “If any of you idiots think you have the remotest chance of getting this planet back, you’re dumber than ever,” he roared. “Remember Iacon? Remember the Impossibles kicking your skid plates, and the resistance cells taking over your bases? There’s no coming back now, femmes and mechs – this planet is free, and it’s going to stay that way.”

Thunderwing suddenly leaped across the table, knocking Prowl off his chair with a solid right cross. Firebot moved to retaliate but Oceanglide kicked him. That was all it took… _enclave_ shattered spectacularly, devolving into an all-out brawl. Fresh oil and Energon snacks flew across the room, splattering all over the immobile Windshear and the injured Incinerator. Sparkplug moved as far out of range as he could, finding himself sharing cover with a grinning Zapmaster.

“See? If _enclave_ had always been this entertaining, I’d have turned up more often!” he cackled. “Thundercracker would love this!”

His Spark sank. How could he possibly hope to resolve this mess? It was an insane situation. Yes, he was the duly elected leader of the Mini-con race. But, for the better part of four million human years, he’d been an absentee leader. He and the escapees had lay dormant on Earth while those who stayed behind had forged new relationships, partnerships and destinies of their own. He was wrong to have tried to bring back old customs – archaic customs that had no place in this new world. And he had no business trying to tell other Mini-cons how to live their lives. He…

Laser fire tore through the room, bouncing off the polished walls and ricocheting into the ceiling. Mini-cons dove for cover, scrabbling to cover their faces and vital systems from the punishing purple bolts. When the gaggle of bodies cleared, Sparkplug could see Dualor, in his tank mode, swinging his smoking barrels left and right.

Dualor, to be honest, had always frightened him. The mech was a zealot, pretty much, convinced that Mini-cons were infinitely superior to the main Transformer race. During that long-ago election, he’d advocated an alliance with Megatron – then a military general, not yet a terrorist – as a way of solidifying Mini-con rights. The end, to Dualor, always justified the means… and his means were always backed by pure power. Like Sparkplug, he was a walking reservoir of Unicron’s power, a potent weapon for anyone who wanted to use… or abuse… him.

“You will all sit down,” Dualor said, his voice reeking of death, “and you will listen to Sparkplug. We will obey the traditions of _enclave_ one last time and, then, we will decide our own fates. This is the last time we shall all meet like this, and so we will do it right. Now… _sit back down!_ ”

As one, the Mini-cons obeyed – Astroscope tripped over Jolt in their mutual hurry to find seats. Order was restored as quickly as chaos had spread. Dualor waited until everyone had settled, then transformed and began to speak.

“What none of you seem to understand,” he said gravely, “is that, from the day of our creation, the Mini-cons have been slaves. Tools. Devices to be used at the whim of another. Our own creator, Unicron, made us as an elaborate trap to annihilate Cybertron. Megatron used us as slave labour and, then, as weaponry. Even Optimus Prime, in his own way, used us… as bait for the Chaos Bringer, as part of the scheme to destroy it.

“Some of you may be comfortable with that idea. Some of you may have actually made real, genuine friendships with your masters. That is your prerogative, and your choice. Today is about personal choice – what we do from here decides the future of not only the Mini-con race, but each of us as individuals. First, we must choose if we will offer the same option to the Air Assault Team. Then… then we will make our own decisions, truly, for the first time.”

He turned to Sparkplug, who tried to hide his surprise. “I think,” he said slowly, “a secret ballot is in order, if only to move proceedings along.”

Sparkplug nodded. “All… all right.” He swallowed hard, then pressed a button on the table. A thin panel rose up in front of each seated Mini-con, each with two coloured buttons – one white, one black.

“These data tracks record the number of votes, but not who made them,” he explained. “If you believe the Air Assault Team should be separated, no matter the risk, press the white button. If you think it best to leave them as they are, then… then press the black button.”

A couple of the Mini-cons nodded. Several stabbed their buttons instantly. Sparkplug reached up, gingerly tapped the white button before him, and waited for the final result. A choice between life and processor death for three of his friends.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Newsy891.

“So didja know him?”

Snarl shifted uncomfortably in the back row. Not for the first time, he rued his decision to sit here. Then again, it would scarcely have mattered – Armourhide seemed to want to stick to him, like a disgusting oily residue, no matter where he went.

“No,” the wolf hissed. “We… served together… but briefly.”

“So yer just here outta duty too, then?”

He took and deep breath and snorted. “Something like that.”

At the front of the chamber, Optimus Prime was talking. Others had taken the podium to deliver mealy-mouthed speeches… Rodimus, Red Alert, Grimlock. Snarl would have been interested to hear what Bulkhead would say, given the rumours of their altercation on Earth, but the surviving Wrecker was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was going stark-raving mad in a sub-basement, as rumour claimed.

“A Spark… it is the very thing which makes us what we are,” Optimus said. “Every Cybertronian, Autobot or Decepticon, has one – and each is _different_. When a Spark goes online, there’s great joy. When one’s extinguished, the universe weeps.

“This cycle, my friends, we have gathered to pool our sorrow… to weep, as much as our race can. Though Tow-Line’s Spark was not extinguished – though it was cruelly stolen from him, and he from us – he is still gone, and thus do we mark his passing,” he waved a hand toward the funeral barge, “as is our tradition.”

Nothing, Snarl noticed angrily, was said of the glory of the journalist’s demise.

"What a way to go, eh?” Armourhide whispered pungently. “Havin’ yer Spark ripped outta ya by some bogey-mech from the dawn o’ time. Now me, I wouldn’t be caught dead within five klicks o’ one o’ those monsters. Demolitions, sabotage, stealth… that’s my game. Face to face fighting? Fugheddabowdit.”

“Yes, I can well imagine that to be to your liking,” Snarl replied, his patience with weaklings, apologists and annoyances at its end. “Though how you manage to be stealthy when you reek like a mountain of desiccated animal carcasses quite escapes my logic circuits.”

For the first time since their meeting, Armourhide was actually silent. “What did you just say?” he stammered at last.

“I _said_ you stink, you bulked-up vermin,” Snarl glowered, turning his implacable yellow eyes on the annoying twerp. Armourhide flinched. “You are an annoying, pestilent pest, and I wish to Primus you were still… benched or on the B-team,” Snarl continued, his steel hackles rising. “Whatever it was that kept you upwind of me! Like everyone here, you’re a disgrace to the symbol of the Red Mask, a cowering wimp who should have been melted down and recycled vorns ago!”

“Oh yeah?” Armourhide retorted. “At least I’m not inflammable.”

“What are you…”

Snarl looked down. His eyes focused on the magnetic bomb fixed to his chest plate… then it exploded.

Every head turned as the wolf bot fell from the pew and howled, slapping at the liquid fire that raced across his steel skin. Barking in pain, he ran from the ceremony and out into the cool night air, barely registering the cries of Optimus, Grimlock and the others. He made straight for the small water fountain the Earthforce had brought back with them. Snarl dove into it, sighing as the cool liquid extinguished the flames and threw steam into the sky.

When he lifted his head from the water, he saw Armourhide standing just a few feet away. The small robot was doubled over laughing. “I hear that, back on Earth, they call that a hot dog!” he wailed mirthfully.

Snarl roared with rage and leaped, transforming in mid air. Armourhide transformed as well, folding into a filthy blue-and-grey prime mover, and took off toward the Stellar Galleries. “Come on, fuzzball, keep up!” he called. “This is fun!”

“Fun?” Snarl howled furiously. “Fun is when I pull your fuel pump out with my teeth!”

\-----

“If this is a joke, it’s not funny. Run the count again.”

“It’ll be the same,” Over-Run sighed, “as the other three times you’ve had me check it. Sparkplug… I’m sorry, but it’s a tie. Twenty votes to twenty.”

The Mini-con leader was speechless. _So this is what it’s come to,_ he thought grimly. _Just 43 of us survived the Unicron Battles – three of those comatose – and yet we remain so divided, so set in our ways, that we can’t even abandon allegiances for the sake of others. By calling_ enclave _, I’ve just wasted everyone’s time._

“I can’t believe it,” said a soft voice in the corner of the room. The mechs turned to face Sureshock, the last femme Mini-con. She and her partners, High Wire and Grindor, seldom involved themselves with politics. They were more concerned with imagination, freedom and creativity. _As close to Earth’s hippies as robots can get,_ Sparkplug thought disparagingly.

“I can’t believe so many of you would think that way,” Sureshock continued. “Some of you, yes. Enough time spent under the yoke of the Decepticon armada would change even the strongest among us, fuelling the entropy Unicron left within our Sparks.” She looked around the room. “But enough of you to deadlock a vote? Truly, this is a sad day.

“What has this war been fought for? Personal freedoms. And yet half of you would deny that same freedom – the concept our brethren fought and died for – to mechs we’ve known our entire lives? Mechs who, before the war, cared for each and every one of us with their dauntless service, their unending security patrols… you would leave them fallow and lifeless. As no more than a weapon.” She all but spat the last word. “Be you Autobot, Decepticon or non-allied… I am _ashamed_ to be among you this cycle.” She fell back into her seat, as if the energy had been sucked from her tiny frame.

The room fell into silence, soon broken by the noise of a chair scraping along the floor, and a button being pushed. “Twenty-one,” Clench said, leaning away from his console. “Twenty-one to nineteen. The Air Assault Team gets separated.”

Ramjet leaned across the table, his optics alive with murderous rage. “You filthy traitor,” he scowled.

Clench shrugged. “Say what you like – I know I’ve done the right thing. I watched, cycle in and cycle out, as Megatron abused those guys, drawing out their worst behaviour to keep their edge keen. And I stood by and I let it happen, because every cycle he mistreated them was a cycle he ignored _me_. That I went without… punishment.”

He held up one arm. Sparkplug could see the hand had been severed. The patch job was crude – messy welds one would apply to a sheet of steel, not a living being. “My Spark will spin in the Inferno, one day, for many sins, but none worse than turning a blind optic to my friends’ suffering. I just hope this is some form of penance for all I’ve done… and been forced to do.”

“You can’t…” Waterlog started.

“Don’t…” Terradive began.

But it was too late. Over-Run slapped at his console to lock in the vote, and a force field erupted from the metal gurney, protecting the inanimate Star Sabre. “Now that’s all done with,” he said conversationally, “they’ll be transported to Red Alert and Downshift… the Autobot, not our Road Assault Team friend over there. They will see to separation and ongoing care. Assuming they survive, the trio will be free to choose their own paths.”

Gunbarrel glowered at Sparkplug. “Okay, boss-mech, that’s one scam you’ve pulled. Now what’s this other scrap about settling down somewhere?”

The golden Mini-con gulped. _Talk about a hostile audience._ “Keeping in mind what Sureshock’s just said,” he stammered, “it’s not a decision… it should never have been a decision. I was wrong to call this meeting, and wrong in my thinking. I believed that, with the end of the war, we could start being a race again. Go back to being friends, neighbours and colleagues. But I was dreaming… still in slumber, somewhere on Earth. Times have changed, and I must change with them.” His face screwed up with pain. “No matter how much I wish it were otherwise.

“This is a choice, an offer. I believe we Mini-cons have no place here on Cybertron – it never really was our home and, given what’s been learned of our origins, we’ll hardly be accepted here again. So as I did four million years ago, I propose we leave, make a new life for ourselves somewhere else.”

“And where, pray tell, would that be?” Scattor asked witheringly.

Sparkplug took a deep breath. “I say we colonise and terraform the head of Unicron, which is in orbit around Cybertron, and create our own world. Literally.”

\-----

“Where are you, blast it? Where are you?”

Snarl’s furious barks echoed strangely in the enclosed space. He’d chased Armourhide halfway across Iacon, losing him in the bullet train station. Tracking his prey’s scent had led him here, to the disused utility ducts and sewers beneath the station. He was up to his thighs in foul-smelling, brown muck, and his patience was more taught than tungsten steel wire.

“Nowhere you’ll be able to find me, Chopperface,” came the mocking reply.

Snarl whirled in the direction of the sound, snapping off two shots from his tail-mounted missile launcher. The orange projectiles exploded on contact, showering the wolf with concrete chunks and shredded steel… but no pieces of Armourhide.

“Whoopsie,” came a voice from the other end of the tunnel. “Had ourselves a little miss there, did we?”

Despite himself, the wolf was starting to panic. He was on utterly alien turf, in an environment totally unlike anything on Animatros. There were no air currents to sniff, no breezes to carry sounds, no _nature_ to guide his hunt. His vaunted skills were all but useless… he couldn’t even pick up Armourhide’s stench, so obscured was it by the rancid fluids surrounding him!

“Let’s get somethin’ straight here, doggy bot,” Armourhide continued, sounding now like he was in a different place altogether. “You see the dumpy chassis, you hear the whiny voice, you maybe even see a spot of grease on th’ upholstery and you think ‘loser’. You think ‘waste of space’.”

Four bursts of laser fire ploughed into the much at Snarl’s feet, forcing him to dance in a circle.

“That’s what’cha think, based solely on what you saw. Eeh, and maybe what you heard, me bein’ all about the stealth fightin’ and that. But y’see, the _truth_ is actually in whatchacall the fine details.”

Snarl concentrated, summoning his Force Chip from subspace. Green light began to swirl and coalesce around the back of his head, only to be disrupted and dispersed by another lance of crimson laser fire.

“Coward!” he roared. “Face me in battle!”

“Mebee you oughta listen for a bit, first,” Armourhide said conversationally. Now it seemed as if he was directly above! “Like I was saying, you see all these things ‘bout me and you write me off, straight away, as no threat. As vermin. A rat already in the trap, to coin a phrase.

“But it ain’t like that, oh no. Being an imported model an’ all, you probably don’t know too much ‘bout Kalis. W _eee_ ll, it weren’t such a nice place, the last nine million years or so.”

Keen yellow eyes caught a trace of moment. Snarl pounced, his golden claws bared… but found nothing.

“Close, but no steam valve,” Armourhide said happily. “Kalis, like I was sayin’, was a rough ‘burg. Coupl’a mechs names of Tankor and Obsidian used to run the joint, yer typical despotic heavy-propaganda every-mech-in-fear place. Not the sort o’ place Prime could open up an Autobot resistance cell, if you know what I mean.

“So instead, he sent me.”

Snarl started to laugh. “Now I know you’re insane, morsel,” he sneered. “One tiny, foul-smelling mech against a city-state full of Decepticons? Prime is too cowardly a being to attempt such a gambit, and you’re hardly fit for…”

There was a loud splash, followed by a plopping sound. The wolf leaped to one side, just in time to avoid the contents of another incendiary bomb. _Where is he getting all this ordnance?_ Snarl wondered. _He seems to be carrying more than some of the arsenals I’ve seen on this world!_

“Coupl’a million years of results speak for themselves, I’m proud to say,” Armourhide said from _somewhere_ around him. “The bruisers couldn’t catch me, I had no team to worry about lookin’ after, and I got to be the best there is at what I do. That, my hairy four-legged friend, is blowin’ things ta scrap. More specifically, blowin’ things to scrap without ever bein’ seen. Popping in and outta these here ducts, which may account for the ‘smell’ you claim’s hangin’ around. Scent of success, if ya don’t mind me saying.

“Bugged the frack outta those two Decepti-creeps, me explodin’ their architecture and then not being able to catch me. That’s not cowardice, my friend – that’s strategy. And oh, I wasn’t on the bench with th’ rest o’ th’ B-team, these last coupl’a million years… Optimus had to _wait for me to accept the invitation_ to join his ‘elite’ club.

“In th’ end I figured, why not? I mean, let’s face it: they let you in, so they must be gettin’ desperate for some real talent.”

The tiniest of sounds reached Snarl’s audio sensors – the noise of steel on gravel. Organic senses mixed with targeting software pinpointed the location and the wolf pounced, right into the centre of the shadows. He grinned with satisfaction as Armourhide fell backwards, yelping with fear.

Again, Snarl summoned his Force Chip – its manifestation uninterrupted, the artifact slotted into place and his enormous, serrated golden fangs extended from his upper jaw. “What the eyes don’t see, the nose knows,” he hissed, using his foot to pin his foe’s pelvis to the muck-covered ground. “And when the nose is ignorant, the ears have it.”

“Gotta… tell ya,” Armourhide gasped, writhing under the pressure, “I’m actually… kinda glad… you found me. Got somethin’ I wanna… get off my chest.”

The grille across the Autobot’s chassis swung up and, as his sump sank, Snarl learned where his opponent kept all his weaponry. Beneath the plating sat eight weapons pods, each stocked with a different type of shell. No wonder he preferred to fight from a distance – one direct hit and the grating mech would go up like an Energon tanker. His own face and vitals protected by the shield-like grille, Armourhide has no reason to hesitate… and loosed a barrage.

Snarl dodged the first few shots but could not avoid them all – especially the magnetic shells. More incendiary rounds mixed with sonic disruptors and excavation charges to wreak havoc with his balance, bodywork and cognitive function, and he reared up on his hind legs in agony. He transformed to robot mode but it achieved nothing. Near madness with pain and blinded by a brilliant strobe blast, Snarl raised his tail sword and brought it down where he remembered Armourhide’s head to have been.

He heard the sound of metal on metal, and a scream of fear. He grinned nastily… and was hit so hard he went tumbling down the tunnel. Snarl landed, face first, in a sickening pool of refuse that left him choking and spluttering. When he sat upright, he found himself staring at Grimlock and Swoop.

The Dinobot had his Energon axe in one hand – which he’d used to parry Snarl’s own blow – and Armourhide in the other. He was holding the little fool none too gently by the neck. Swoop hovered above in dinosaur mode, no doubt the reason they had arrived on the scene so quickly.

“Not even start to explain,” Grimlock said sharply. “Idiots get all chance in world when Prime get hands on you. For now, you both listen.”

He turned Armourhide around, and stared into his optics. “Me no care how good think you are, how long you blow up from muck, how ‘bad’ you be,” he growled. “You on team now, no more ‘lone warrior’ slag. Not need prove how tough you are – you here, in team, so proving time long over. Get along with mechs no matter their opinion, or get off team for good. End lecture.” He released his grip, dropping Armourhide into the filth.

“You,” he said to Snarl, eyes flashing darkly, “one frell of a problem-proto. Bring you back, give you chance, and all you can do is be stupid. Waste opportunities. Act like dirtwad Decepticon not Autobot. Change, or me change it for you,” He grinned cruelly. “And you no want that.”

Grimlock looked at them both. “Tow-Line, before him go cuckoo, understand there time for surly and questioning, and time to be team player. Could learned lot from him, he be here still – but could learned lot if listened, rather than criticised funeral. Again, waste opportunity! Time will come, Snarl, when no one care and you be on battlefield alone, no help coming, because no one want to help. Think about it.”

He sighed. “For now, maybe you both learn lesson. Armourhide – it not matter how good mech am. Always be someone better, somewhere. Snarl – size, stench, appearance, it matter not. Warrior not come in one size fit all chassis, and there no pride in selling mech short.” He looked Armourhide over. “Even if him am short… and kinda tubby.

“Now, us go back to Prime so you two really get sorted out. If lucky, only be cleaning waste disposal chutes for half a mega-cycle.” He grinned again, then bellowed: “Get up!”

Despite their injuries, Snarl and Armourhide complied. They followed the Dinobots, a few steps behind, out of the tunnel and back onto the surface.

“Half a mega-cycle o’ waste disposal? Piece of cheese,” Armourhide quipped. “Just gives me all the more cover for comin’ and smokin’ your skid plate when you least expect it.”

“By all means, you’re _welcome_ to try,” Snarl said, wiping disgustedly at his bodywork. “You won’t get the drop on me again, vermin, because I now know your secret.”

“Which _is_?”

Snarl chuckled nastily. “You smell _worse_ than the garbage around you, so you’ll be easy to pick out of a line-up of your nearest and dearest rubbish heaps,” he sneered.

Armourhide shot him a glare and stormed off. Snarl kept smiling – genuinely happy and yet surprised about it. _Finally,_ he thought to himself. _Something interesting on this sterile, perfect world. Something wrong, something dirty, something flawed. A mech that’s almost as nasty as I am. I might have some fun after all._

\-----

“Thanks for your time, and we’re leaving.”

Waterlog and Stormcloud cackled at their leader’s declaration, but Oceanglide’s face plate was etched with seriousness. “You’ve gone mad, Sparkplug,” he said coolly. “You seriously expect us to give up every little bit of ground we’ve gained, over thousands of vorns, just to go scratch around Unicron’s head and build a cubby house?”

Sparkplug felt sick with nerves, but was determined not to back down. “Isn’t that better than being someone’s lapdog? Than having to mistreat others to save yourself?”

Oceanglide laughed unpleasantly. “The thing about being an ‘evil’ Mini-con,” he explained, “is that you can do some serious destroying because no one takes you seriously. They get all distracted by how small you are, or how ‘cute’ you are, and never noticed you sharpening the vibro-blade for the kill. We get to blow slag up thanks to our ‘disarming cuteness’… emphasis on the removal of limbs. That’s power. That’s control. That’s security. And that’s a damn sight better than trying to turn a head into a globe, Sparkplug!”

He stood up and strode out of the room, followed closely by his team and Ramjet. None of the other Mini-cons moved. “Well?” Oceanglide turned to them and demanded.

Clench shook his head while Skid-Z, who had been silent throughout the proceedings, leered horribly. “Keep walking, ya scurvy dog,” he said, making fun of their pirate ways. “Some of us have found something better than ol’ Screamer’s rotting ranks. We’ll see you from across the battlefield sometime.”

Sparkplug couldn’t help but moan.

Muttering to themselves, the four Mini-cons… _no,_ Sparkplug told himself, _the four Decepticons_ … left. Skid-Z and the Air Military Team didn’t hang around, either, and Sparkplug could almost feel Side Burn’s pain as he joined them. Wherever the talented deep-cover agent was going, it would likely do nothing to ease the pressure he was under… nor the danger he was in.

Firebot was the next to rise. “Sparkplug, we appreciate what ya said, an’ what yer tryin’ to do here,” he said sympathetically. “But all ‘a us… those that work with th’ Autobots… figure we’ve got bigger responsibilities than just ourselves. We aim to take care o’ that.”

The Mini-con leader nodded wearily. He’d expected as much. “I understand.”

The blue and red fire truck turned to Windshear. “In the spirit o’ all that’s gone on this cycle,” he told his prisoner, “I’m prepared to set ya free, if ya wanna go with Sparkplug’s plans. I ain’t lettin’ you out to join the ‘cons, ya understand, but I cain’t in good conscience stop ya from havin’ a second chance, if ya want it.”

Windshear stared levelly. There was almost a nobility in his stance, despite the Energon chains that bound him. “My friend has suffered enough betrayal in his life,” he said, talking about his partner Wheeljack. “You won’t find me adding to that burden.” Firebot shrugged – likely, it was what _he’d_ expected – and lead them all out into the streets of Iacon.

Sparkplug found himself sitting with his fellow escapees, the Night Attack Team, Clench, the Destruction Team…and Dualor. The twin-barrelled tank stared balefully at him. “What is it you propose?” he asked.

“We’re not just the last members of our race, we’re the last creations of the Chaos Bringer,” Sparkplug said quietly. “It crafted us to be smaller, less complex versions of the Transformers… imitations, pawns in an elaborate scheme. Still, I feel that leaves us the responsibility of cleaning up the mess it made. Though its Spark… or whatever it had… is extinguished, that head is still a pretty potent weapon for the wrong people. And it’s our birthplace, and perhaps the closest thing we actually have to a home.

“I want to merge those two realities. I want to give us a homeland where we have total say over our actions… sovereignty. And I want us to accept our responsibility as guardians of any remaining destructive capability, rather than be a bunch of renegades using such power irresponsibly.

Dualor looked at his troops. Every single one of them bristled with weaponry. Alone, they were practically unstoppable. When combined with a Transformer, they achieved god-like capabilities. In short, they were the last mechs Sparkplug felt would have any interest in building a world.

“So… what do you say?” Sparkplug asked.

One by one, they nodded their assent. “You have to tear down in order to build,” Dualor said evenly. “For that, you’ll need us. And after, you’ll need someone to guard this paradise… a place where Mini-cons can finally command their own destinies, as a superior race should.”

Sparkplug wrinkled his nose. _Not exactly the doctrine I had in mind, but we’ve got time to change it. With just 22 of us, it’s going to take a while to smooth out the edges of the head… that gives us ample opportunity to iron out our differences, too. Huh… this might just work, at that._

They spent a few hours making arrangements – talking about ships, supplies, proposals to put forward to the Autobots. “I have a good feeling about this, Sparkplug,” Dualor, the last to go, said as he stepped through the steel doors. “You won’t let me down, I trust.”

The golden Mini-con shook his head. “I’ve been waiting too long to do anything but succeed, and now I have the chance,” he said.

Dualor nodded and walked away, letting the doors slide shut behind him. Barely a moment had passed before Over-Run slapped Sparkplug heartily on the back, chuckling slightly.

“Sparkplug, many members of our race have long wished you possessed my confidence, my poise, my abilities,” he said fondly. “Today, you had the next best thing.”

“You?”

“No, my young friend – the _appearance_ of confidence, poise and ability. In short, the one thing a politician… a world leader… really needs. Now come on – we have many things to do.”

Sparkplug cast his optics around, taking in the empty room and the abandoned table. It was, he realised, the last meeting place of the Mini-con race. From this cycle, some would be Autobots, some would be Decepticons, and some… would become something new entirely, with an environment to call their own.

“Yes, we do,” he said, feeling a knot in his Spark untie. “I can’t wait to get started.”


End file.
